


you take your heart and walk away

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Songfic, like not really but it was supposed to be so ????, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3712684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small">Insp: The Mess I Made - Parachute</span>
</p><p>Now that she'd started running, she couldn't stop. She had to pack a bag, maybe call the Doctor and go live five hundred years in the future where there was no way she would run into Bucky Barnes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you take your heart and walk away

**Author's Note:**

> im so sorry  
> (also pls keep in mind that i know literally nothing of the lisbon metro system. thank you)

Everything had been perfect. Life was smoothly rolling along, with only a few dangerous missions on Bucky's part and multiple "We can shag later - I'm grading papers" from Clara. They fit each other like the perfectly tailored gloves Clara had worn to Steve and Sam's wedding. Which meant that, of course, it was all bound to go to shit sooner or later.

(As it turned out, it was sooner.)

  
It was a wonderful summer night, the kind when there was a light breeze and a full moon, the kind when all the good things happened, the kind when everything unexpectedly went bad.

Clara rushed out of the restaurant, choking back sobs, her heels clattering against the pavement as she ran back to her apartment. She replayed their conversation in her head over and over again.

"I'm not ready," he'd said. "I don't trust myself."

"But _I_ trust you."

"I'm sorry, Clara." 

And now she was running through New York, hating herself for pushing Bucky around, for forcing him to do something he wasn't comfortable with. Hating herself for hurting him. Hating herself for running away.

But now that she'd started running, she couldn't stop. She had to pack a bag, maybe call the Doctor and go live five hundred years in the future where there was no way she would bump into Bucky Barnes.

 

"I'm sorry, Clara." The Doctor's voice sounded muffled and a little anxious. "I can't come get you."

"Why not?" she snapped. She was standing in her front hall with a suitcase at her feet. "It'll just take a moment. Besides, you have a time machine."

"It's...it's not that."

"What is it, then?"

"I'm sorry," he said again. "Listen, I have to go."

And the line went dead.

Clara was used to him being snippy, but usually she was snippy right back, and this was a whole other level of impolite. She made a noise of displeasure and kicked at her suitcase. It tipped on its side, bringing a potted plant down with it. If the Doctor wasn't going to help her, she'd have to ask someone else. Preferably, someone who wouldn't ask too many questions. She went to sit on her couch and weighed her options.

She could go to someone and ask advice, maybe Natasha or Pepper - except someone who _didn't_ know Bucky was probably better. She considered calling up one of her friends from England, but they were from her Other Life, they were from Before Bucky, they knew Danny and would do things like ask, "So how are you holding up?"

She didn't need that right now. (Besides, it's not like she'd spoken to them since she left. It's not like she'd bothered to tell anyone about Bucky, or New York.)

So what _could_ she do?

Her phone rang suddenly, making her jump out of her seat in shock. It was Steve.

Clara set it back on the table. She could imagine Steve spitting venomous accusations at her through the receiver, telling her she'd pushed Bucky too far, she hadn't been careful like she'd promised, she'd _hurt_ him...and she wouldn't be able to do a thing to defend herself. Every single word he would say would be the truth.

Her home phone rang a few moments later. Steve again - or Sam. Getting it from Sam would be even worse: he was the first one to let her into their little circle when Bucky had brought her home for the first time.

"Guess I'm not the new boy anymore," he said jokingly. "That's your job now."

She couldn't imagine what he would say to her, but she didn't want to hear the tone of voice he used with his opponents.

Clara had fucked up. She'd massively fucked up. And she realized, sitting on the couch with two phones ringing continuously at her, that she had to stop simply weighing her options and _do_ something. She realized she'd run out of options.

She stood suddenly. She had to go.

 

Clara sat in a seat on the airplane, squeezed between a fat woman and the window, headed to Portugal. She wasn't sure why she'd chosen Portugal of all places, seeing as she didn't even speak the language, but all she could think of was the cell phone she'd left on her coffee table with a note beside it that read:

_Bucky, it was my fault, and I'm sorry. Love, Clara._

Thinking back, she probably could have made some modifications, such as adding "please don't follow me" or "I'll be fine as long as I don't have to change apartments every month," but it was too late for that now. New York was merely a tiny speck behind her now.

 

It took Clara Oswald about twenty minutes in Lisbon to realize she'd made a stupid, rash decision. She had no friends here, no way of getting a job or an apartment, and not a lot of money in the meantime. That night, she slept in a metro station right outside the city - it was small, dirty and forgotten, and she found that it reminded her of herself.

Over the next month, she picked up skills she'd never needed before: how to avoid policemen, how to stay inside a station after hours - sleeping inside was generally better than sleeping outside - and how to fight off the drunken assholes who tried to snuggle up next to her at night.

In short, she really wanted to go home. She'd saved just enough money to get her on a plane back to New York, but then she would be done until she could get a new credit card – she'd cut her old one in two and left it in a trash can. 

The thing was, she didn't know whether she still had a job or an apartment, or even whether she still had friends in the Avengers. She didn't know if she'd be welcomed back into their city, but she couldn't stay in Lisbon any longer. If she had to sleep on the uncomfortable metal chairs _one more time_ she would Hulk out and tear everything down.

So she boarded a plane to New York, and realized she'd have to walk home from the airport.

 

In the end, Clara didn't go home: she went to Bucky's house. But Bucky wasn't there, so she walked the mile to Steve and Sam's place (because he might be there instead), right past her own building without thinking to go up and drop off her things. 

As she walked down the hall to their apartment, she could hear laughter and comfort and _home_ , abruptly cut off by her knock. A very disheveled Steve opened the door - his hair was sticking up, he had a streak of flour across his face and there were colored sprinkles adorning his beard.

"Clara!" he exclaimed. "You're back."

She nodded. "I am, and I made a mistake. Is Bucky here?"

Steve bit his lip. "He's on a mission," he said finally. "I'm sorry. Would you like to come in? We're baking -" He cut himself off, turning to face the kitchen. "Sam, no!"

There was a shout of laughter from the kitchen. "'S all fiiiine, Stevie," came Sam's voice, words slurring together drunkenly. "Yore the adult, man. You can't get drunk." 

 

Clara couldn't see over Steve's shoulder, but she shook her head unhappily. She didn't want ruin their night. "No. I...I should go home."

Steve put a hand on her shoulder. "He'll be back in a few days. I don't know what happened between you, but it'll all work out."

She nodded again, forcing down a lump in her throat. "See you."

Walking home, she wished Steve's mood had rubbed off on her. But she decided to follow Sam's lead instead, because alcohol was more accessible to her than love or supersoldier serum right now.

 

A week had passed since Clara had returned from Portugal, and still no Bucky. She dropped by Avenger's Tower once, just to see if they still cared, and was surprised to see they did. Nonetheless, she didn't stay. Once she'd gotten drunk with Barton, she went back home and stayed there until a knock on her door a couple days later sliced through the fog in her mind.

She dragged herself down her hall, hoping it was anyone _but_ Bucky…and of course, there he was, standing on the other side of her door.

He looked battered and bruised: his flesh arm was in a sling, he had a black eye and stitches down the side of his face.

She felt almost as bad as he looked.

"Sarge," she whispered hoarsely.

"Clara." His voice was monotonous, drained of all emotion.

"I...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you and I definitely shouldn't have run." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "It was rude and it was _selfish_ , and...and the moment I left I knew I shouldn't have. It was a stupid decision. I'm sorry."

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek. The silence grew unsettling. 

"Will you forgive me?" Clara asked finally.

He shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe. I can try." Then he shook his head. "Not yet."

She clenched her teeth and nodded. He nodded back and turned away. His steps were silent, like a ghost.

She would not let herself cry. She brought this on herself. It's her fault, she messed up, she's to blame.

She stood at the door long after he was gone, and fought the tears.


End file.
